Like Father, Like Son
by dumpling47
Summary: One-shot. It's Christmas, and Sherlock's not himself. John questions it, and a dark secret is revealed.


"Christmas, again."

"You don't sound very pleased."

Sherlock tossed his violin aside. "Yes, well, I've never been one for the season of merrymaking."

I sighed. "Determined to not enjoy anything, are we?"

"It's just - it's too _happy_. The gifts, the families coming together ..."

"You must be quite fun at holiday parties."

It was our first Christmas together at Baker Street, and Sherlock was being entirely petulant about the whole affair, from Mrs. Hudson's decorations to my whistling of carols. He seemed to become vastly irritated by the simplest things as of late, and it felt as though I were treading on a minefield sometimes. I was used to his swift changes in mood, of course (I did live with him, after all), but for God's sake, couldn't he just let up a little and let others have their fun? We had company coming over tonight, after all, and I didn't want his negative attitude affecting everyone else.

I sat down by the fire. "You'll at least behave once Lestrade and the others arrive, won't you?" I asked, knowing that I could hardly expect as much. Sherlock Holmes isn't exactly known for thinking of others.

He shrugged. "Whatever you say, John."

* * *

The night went terribly. Sherlock seemed focused on ruining everybody's good moods, from Lestrade to me to Molly.

Oh, God.

Poor Molly.

The entire affair had been entirely unnecessary and embarrassing. Sherlock had thought he was being clever, deducing things about the gift she'd brought, and had somehow ended up saying nasty things without realizing it - I'll spare you the details. Needless to say, though, once our guests were gone, I chose that moment to lash out.

"Sherlock, for God's sake -"

He wasn't there. I found him in his room, toying with Irene Adler's phone.

"What do you suppose the passcode is?" he murmured, tossing it up in the air and catching it in an opened palm.

"That's hardly of importance right now, Sherlock -"

He shot me an icy glare. "John, the fate of the nation may rest in whether or not we -"

"Dash all that!" I cried, clenching my hands into fists. "We need to talk about the here and now - namely, how poorly you behaved tonight!"

Sherlock flopped down on his bed, burying his face in his pillow. "Don't talk to me about tonight. I know I was horrible."

"Well, you could've at least apologized to the guests -"

Sherlock brought his face up momentarily, peering at me through the slits of his eyes. "Do you think I give a damn about how the _guests _feel? Didn't you ever consider how they make _me_ feel, John? I can't be around them. They bore me, all of them." He shoved his face back down into the bed.

"Sherlock Holmes, stop acting like a five-year-old! You're behaving as though your life is so difficult, and that hurting others puts them on your level or something! Well, I'll have you know that you've got it pretty good around here - these people _care_ about you, regardless of the hell you put them all through -"

To my very great surprise, I heard a muffled noise in the pillow. A groan of anguish, or a sob - but surely it could be neither. Surely ...

"Sherlock -"

My friend evidently recovered himself, because he sat up, his cheeks very red. "You notice who was here tonight? All of _your_ friends."

"They're your friends too."

Sherlock's lip quivered for a millisecond, but he got himself together so quickly that I wasn't sure if it had actually happened. "You're going to visit Harry tomorrow, if I remember correctly?"

"Yes, but what has that got to do with anything -?"

"Don't you _see_, John?" Sherlock cried, "You've got all these friends and family to spend the holidays with, while all mine are either dead or couldn't give a rat's arse about seeing me. Do you even know what it's like, to be alone on Christmas, of all things? Call it sentiment, I don't care, but I just want - I want -" He swallowed. "I don't know what I want."

"Sherlock," I said, sitting down beside him, "Please, talk to me; I'm begging you. What is the matter?"

We talked for awhile, and I did my best to explain to him that despite his impressions, he did have people that loved and cared about him and wanted to spend the holidays in his company. Then Sherlock told me something that shook me to the core. To an outside observer it may have seemed unrelated, but to me it made all the sense in the world.

He told me that his father had died, twenty years ago today, on Christmas.

"Perhaps you'll understand," he said bitterly, "Why I find it hard to be a source of merriment during this time of year."

"I imagine you loved your father very much."

He nodded, and I looked to see his eyes clouding over. I'd never seen him cry before - it was against his cold and calculated nature - and I suppose this was the closest I'd ever seen him to doing so.

"He was wonderful," he said. "But he was depressed, very depressed. He - he jumped from a building."

"Jesus Christ."

Sherlock swallowed again. "Right on Christmas, when he was supposed to be coming home from work. I remember my mother being so worried, wondering where he'd gone off to, and when she found out - well, our household was never the same. None of us - my mother, Mycroft, or myself - could very well handle it. My mother's been sad ever since, and, well, since then ... I've tried not to grow too attached, to people or to sentimental things like this blasted holiday. I hope you'll understand."

"Oh, my dear friend -"

I pulled him close and hugged him tight. I remember feeling a wetness against my shoulder, and feeling his body shake under my own.

"You must understand, Sherlock," I said, "That while maybe you don't want to tell anyone else of this - just know, we're all here to support you, whether you'll admit to needing it or not. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, _me_. We're your friends. We'll make sure you're not alone - especially not tonight."

Hearing this, Sherlock Holmes broke down completely. Once again, I'll not get into details (his privacy must be protected, after all), but he showed enough emotion to make me aware that this past occurrence had truly been life-altering.

Admittedly, no Christmas since has been the same. Not when I think of Sherlock, and his poor father, and how alone my friend felt in the world, until he had realized that he had, in fact, others that were there to comfort him, whether his pride would allow it or not.

* * *

All that took place a year ago.

This Christmas is very different.

My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead.

Jumped off a building, just like his father.

I now know the pain he felt, one year ago. I finally understand.

And you know what?

Right now, it feels as though nobody - _nothing -_ can bring me solace.

... that is, until a thin silhouette appears in the door. I almost cry out in surprise and fear and a whole conglomerate of other emotions.

There he is.

Jesus Christ.

He opens his mouth to speak.

"I'm so sorry -"

I feel as though my heart is ripping in two. I'm just seeing things. I'm just seeing things ...

"Are - are you -?" I know he's not real, just a sort of hallucination, so why even bother fooling myself?

Sherlock's mouth is twisted into a very sad smile.

"Merry Christmas, John," he says.


End file.
